Tribute
by CoriKay
Summary: A story that is set in Season 9 but flashes back to Jack's military service in Vietnam and presumes that he was born in 1952.


Title:Tribute

Author:CoriKay

Genre: Challenge for Dwarf #70, Phlebo-Keeper of Jack's veins (me)

Season: PreSG1 and Season 9

Genre:Angst

Spoilers:None

Author's Notes: Since Jack's service in Vietnam is a blank page; I took the liberty of assigning a responsibility and rank. Since I have no military experience, I had to rely heavily on web searches and personal recollections by those who were in-country. I hope I have done them justice.

Disclaimer: All Stargate SG-1 characters are the property of

Stargate SG-1 Productions (II) Inc., MGM Worldwide Television

Productions Inc., Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp and

Showtime Networks Inc. No money exchanged hands. This is written for entertainment purposes only. Original characters are the property of the author.

Tribute

There was the intense quiet of a heavy December snowfall. No howling wind, just the torrent of swirling flakes muffling all sound except the thrumming of his beating heart. Flat on his back, he felt the comfort of the presence of his best friend beside him. He opened his mouth, trying to catch one of the drifting forms above him with his tongue. Strangely the taste was hot, biting, and acrid. Flakes turned to cinders as the world exploded once again around Airman Jack O'Neill as he slipped into the deepest darkness he had ever known in his nineteen years.

* **

It was the beginning of another long shift as Corpsman Sully Fitzgerald gathered the tools of his trade and prepared to make his rounds in the ward. Cam Rahn Bay had the largest facility in-country. The 12th Air Force Hospital had 450 operating beds and a 100 bed casualty staging area. The previous night's 107 mm rocket attack had increased his patient load by fifteen. Some of them had shrapnel wounds; some were under observation, including the young airman at the end of the row. He had sustained a pretty big concussion and so far had spent his time drifting in and out of consciousness. While tests hadn't revealed much, there was still the possibility of a closed head injury, so frequent monitoring was essential. The doc had ordered a hemoglobin and hematocrit to assess blood loss. Sully hoped there wouldn't be a need to transfuse. He already checked the dog tags and inwardly grimaced when he saw the blood type was B Neg. He knew there were few units of that available and the stock of universal donor was also low.

Another corpsman brushed up next to Fitzgerald. "Your guy on the end is awake," he said with a jerk of his head. "He's been mumbling all night about some guy named Victor. What's that all about?"

Sully didn't take the time to answer just simply cradled his blood drawing tray in his left arm and headed down the row.

"Stay back, you damn vampire" one of the injured announced, crossing his index fingers at right angles.

Another one said, "Hey you all know where Sully spends his summers, don't ya? He paused, and then answered his own question, "Leech Lake." He then proceeded to laugh.

Sully had been in the business long enough to know all the jokes and long enough not to take any of the comments to heart. Ironically, the one person he would have welcomed some reaction from was quiet, his dark eyes doing a search pattern of the ceiling above him.

"O'Neill?" Fitzgerald asked as he came to the bedside.

There was just the slightest nod from the airman.

"Glad to see you're awake." Sully continued, "You had us a little worried there for a while. I'm here to take some blood from you."

O'Neill silently offered his left arm while the banter around them continued.

"Hey Dracula! I thought your kind only comes out at night."

Fitzgerald dutifully ignored the comments, cleaned the antecubital site with alcohol, palpated the large vein and deftly inserted the needle. Within moments he procured the sample.

"I hardly felt that. When I enlisted I thought most of you guys couldn't hit the broadside of a barn door. Good job." O'Neill said quietly.

Sully straightened, surprised. It was rare to receive compliments. "Thanks," he replied. "Back in the states, I worked at a pediatric hospital. You learn to be good and fast."

"Must have been hard to work with sick kids all the time," O'Neill said.

"Yeah." Sully stopped himself from saying that many of those children weren't much younger than the wounded ones in his ward.

"So what's the technical term for what you do? "O'Neill asked.

Again Fitzgerald was surprised. No one had ever asked him that before.

"I'm a phlebotomist. Phlebos is Greek for vein. I'm someone who takes blood from veins."

"Flea-bottom-ist," O'Neill repeated.

Sully leaned closer to O'Neill, his voice purposefully low. "Do me a favor. Don't say it that way. The last thing I need is for these guys thinking that I spend time looking up insect's asses." His inside joke hit home and Sully was rewarded with a hint of a smile from the injured man.

He could see that O'Neill's gaze had dropped to his chest and he could tell that the man was having trouble reading his name. Probably still having double vision, Sully thought.

"Name's Sully Fitzgerald. Actually Sullivan Fitzgerald. My sainted Irish mother wasn't about to give up her maiden name, so she saddled me with it."

"How long you been in-country?" O Neill asked.

"Six months. Going with the 1st Marines next week. How about you?"

O'Neill grimaced suddenly and Sully's training kicked into gear.

"I'll get the doc. He needs to know you're awake and talking." He turned to go.

"Wait."

An iron-fisted grip stopped the corpsman's retreat and forced him to look back at the airman.

"I need to know and no one will tell me."

O'Neill's gaze bored right through him and Sully knew what was coming next. It was what all the wounded wanted to know.

"Victor?"

"He didn't make it."

The grip was immediately released and the dark eyes snapped shut.

"Sorry, man, "Sully said. He could see O'Neill's jaw muscles working furiously. It was his cue to leave. "Gotta go. I'll come back later."

O'Neill acknowledged that with a nod, but his eyes remained closed.

The other corpsman intercepted Fitzgerald halfway back to the ward desk, carrying a clipboard in his hand. "Who is this Victor anyway? We don't have anyone on the list with that either as a first or last name."

Sully answered," His dog. O'Neill was doing guard duty. I heard the dog took the brunt of the shell fire. Saved his life."

"Lucky for him."

"Yeah," Sully said as he looked back at O'Neill, who now had thrown his arm over his face. "But I don't think he thinks so."

Jack pressed the inside of his elbow tight against his mouth trying to muffle his sobs. His other arm was at his side, his hand reaching in vain for the one who had sacrificed all for him.

* * *

General Jack O'Neill stood in front of the Wall. Constitution Gardens were familiar grounds for him since he made it a practice to stop here at every opportunity. The mid-November wind was brisk and for a moment he regretted leaving his overcoat behind. His dress blues definitely weren't warm enough. Every time he stopped, he picked up where he left off, his intent being to scan every one of the more than fifty-eight thousand names engraved on the black granite panels. Some days no name sparked recognition, but today within a few minutes he found another one he remembered. Sullivan Fitzgerald, the corpsman at Cam Rahn Bay. He remembered how the man had gone out of his way to be nice to him in those days after Victor's death. Jack thought they might have become good friends had Jack not been sent back to the States as the Kilo teams were being phased out of Vietnam in early 1973. There was a diamond etched next to Fitzgerald's name, indicating his cause of death was known.

Jack pulled himself to attention, giving the man his best salute for a full minute. Then he smartly turned and headed for his next meeting. There was a bill that needed to be passed, HR5148, to have a national memorial built honoring the canine corps. Victor and his dedicated brethren deserved their recognition too.

He had been in Washington long enough to know when to throw a General's weight around. And this cause deserved every ounce of it.

Author's Note:

When I asked myself what kind of job Jack could have had as an Airman, I ended up doing some research and just happened to stumble upon the Air force Canine corps (Kilo teams). It seemed to be a fit for Jack.

These dog teams played an important part in the war. Bounties were placed by the enemy on both the dog and their handler. These dogs were heroes. Unfortunately at the end of the war, they were considered excess military equipment and despite protests by their handlers, most were left behind in Vietnam to uncertain fates.

Please take time to honor Veterans on November 11 and the ones who sacrificed all on Memorial Day.


End file.
